Homerun
by demondreaming
Summary: Robbie proves himself awfully handy at dating Beck, even if he is incredibly awkward through every moment of his life. Rock, rated M.


**Disclaimer: Victorious is not owned by me, but I sure can make a parody porno starring Victoria Justass.**

**/**

"Sorry."

An uneasy smile creeps across your face, cheeks heating up. You grab what you were looking for; an old Spiderman comic. It seemed so much easier in your head to just reach across where Beck lay on your bed to get it. Unfortunately, things never turn out as expected for you. Your hand had grazed his shoulder, and you'd had to basically climb on top of him to get it off your bedside table, knee nudging Beck's waist.

Beck laughs, hands behind his head. "Rob, we've been going out for a month. It's okay to touch me."

You push your black-framed glasses up your nose, butt plopping back into your chair beside the bed. "Right, I know. Sorry."

Your hand flexes on the comic in your lap as Beck props himself up, hand reaching out to cover yours. "Stop apologising." He smiles at you, raising his eyebrows, and you nod, feeling his fingers find the spaces between yours.

"Sor- I mean, okay."

"You know Rob," Beck studies your face, shuffling closer to where you sit in your Galaxy War sticker-spattered swivel chair. "You're kind of cute when you're nervous."

A noise like a strangled goat makes its way out of your throat before Beck's lips find yours, the smell of his aftershave tingling in your nose. It's all clean and fresh and strong. Just like Beck. After he leaves, you can smell him on your pillow when you sleep. It's comforting, like having him there. Except you don't have to worry about making a fool of yourself then.

He pulls away, lowering himself to the bed once again, that easy grin on his face. "Better?"

You let out a long breath, licking your lips. "Yeah." You turn your eyes to the comic, flicking through a few pages absentmindedly. You've forgotten why you even wanted it now. Beck seems to have that effect on you. You find yourself looking at the date of publication, fingernail pressed under the print. What Beck said was right. The two of you have been dating for a little over a month. You have no idea where the time went. You have no idea why Beck's with you at all. You've ran through it in your head a million times. Playing Dungeons and Dragons all those years made you excellent at figuring out all the different possibilities of something, even if it cost you your socialising skills. But Beck's one possibility you can't figure out. It's impossible that he'd want to be with you. There's no roll of the die that has the outcome of him being interested in you. Yet he is.

You twist around, setting the comic on your desk. When you turn back, Beck's rolled away from you, fiddling with the Pearpod that's plugged into a small speaker on the bedside table. A simple, slow song starts, piano keys sounding softly. Satisfied, he rolls onto his back again. You can't help but watch him. It's like watching those big cats on the documentary channel, when you were a kid. They moved like liquid, muscles slipping and sliding under their skin. They were mercury, fluid yet metal. It takes an awful lot of strength to be graceful, and Beck moves just like them. Like underneath his coffee skin, he's liquid steel. You know why _you're_ going out with him. It's what you've always hoped for. But you have no idea why he's with you.

"Something wrong?"

You twist your mouth, gaze ducking to where your hands grind into the knees of your jeans, palms itching. "Why... why did you kiss me?"

Beck's strong eyebrows burrow down. "Because I wanted to."

You shake your head, brunette curls bobbing. "Not just now. T-the first time."

You remember it so well. How could you not? Your heart had been beating so hard you were sure you were having a coronary. Beck's fingers tousling your hair, that smile that always relaxed you but made you so nervous at the same time. His hand slipping to your cheek, eyes closing as he leaned in...

You swallow hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Why did you want to?"

Beck pushes himself up, shoulders pressed against the padded headboard of your bed. "You really don't know how cool you are, do you Rob?"

You stare at him. "Cool?"

Beck's mouth twists. "Maybe not cool." He shrugs. "Do I need a reason for liking you? You make me happy. _Really_ happy. Isn't that enough?"

You nod almost too quickly. "Yeah, no, it is. It's cool. I was just... you know, wondering. That's all. No biggie." Really, you wonder how someone like Beck went from Jade to you. And it's not just about the gender thing. It's that Jade, even if she was... well, a bit mean sometimes... well, all the time, was so much better than you in pretty much every way. Except theatre tech. But even Tori's better than you there. You're not the best at anything, in fact, you're the worst at a lot of things. You're not ripped, or tan, or cool, or remotely able to function in the real world, yet Beck looks at you like you're all those things and more. He looks at you like you're not a loser, and maybe you're not when you're with him. "Hey, can I..." You trail off, pointing to Beck's mouth and back to yours. You're still not used to being able to touch him. Or kiss him. You're not even sure the extent of what he'd let you do to him.

"Kiss me?" Beck finishes for you, patting the spot on the bed beside him. "Come on up."

You clamber onto the bed awkwardly, almost getting tangled up in the chair somehow, losing a shoe in the process. You kick the other off, jumping as Beck's arm settles around your shoulders. He's just so... beautiful. You know that guys aren't supposed to be beautiful, that you're supposed to call them handsome, but secretly you think Beck's like an Arabian horse. All majestic and proud. Your Aunt Clara used to have one, on a little farm upstate. You used to visit her every Spring break, until your parents got tired of schlepping all that way just to say barely two words to her, those words usually being 'old maid'. You were allergic to the horse, but you never got tired of watching Snowflake step daintily across the field, fine nostrils flaring, tail held high, while you ate Saltines, nose pressed to the window. Not that Beck's a horse. Or a cat. But he's something not quite human, something you can only call beautiful. At least in your mind.

It's Beck who ends up kissing you, as usual, his lips cool and tasting of mint. You're pretty sure you taste like raspberry poptarts and cola. You taste like a five year old. You absolutely don't understand what he sees in you. You love everything about Beck except his taste in men.

"I'm not a collectible, Rob. You don't have to seal me in mylar and never touch me. You're not gonna break me." Beck's forehead is hard against you, aquiline nose touching yours. "If you want to kiss me, just do it." Beck's dark eyes flick to your lips. "I'm your boyfriend." He kisses you softly, while you try and reciprocate without choking on your spit. When he kisses you, it's like everything else just shuts off. Like your brain goes even stupider than usual, and focuses all its attention on making your heart beat hard enough to burst.

Beck leans back, hand on your cheek. "Say it."

You blink. "You're... my, uh... boyfriend."

Beck nods. "And again."

"You're my boyfriend."

"Very good! You know, you should be an actor or something." Beck grins at you, jumping his eyebrows.

"So if I want to touch you... I just... can?" Your voice squeaks as it comes out, stumbling out of your throat. You wish your voice was like Beck's, all smooth and low. Your mom told you once, when she was drunk on wine during Passover, that she'd taken a whole bunch of oestrogen pills when she was pregnant. Most women had urges for odd foods, your mother had one for hormonal supplements. Not that that's any conclusive proof, but you always suspected that had something to do with your less than manly man-ness. Not that you're a woman in any sort of way. Not that you'd mind, though. You've thought sometimes about what life would've been like if you were a lady. You always figured yourself for a housewife type. Baking hams and raising children. Sitting with your husband in the evening, listening to the wireless, glass of wine in your hand.

Beck spreads his arms, palms out-turned. "Feel away."

You nod, partly to reassure yourself. You want to touch him. You always have. It's just taking a little time to realise that you actually can now. That he wants you to. Beck's always been better than you. You feel like you're getting him dirty just by being near him. But maybe Beck wants to be dirty.

Your hand grazes his chest, white t-shirt warm and thin under your fingers. You can feel the broad plane of his chest, the curve of his collarbone. He's so warm, so alive. You're so used to your fingers touching cold wood, operating the dead machine that is Rex. "Is that okay?"

"It's a start."

You shuffle closer to Beck, letting out half a nervous laugh. Beck's always been there for you, since you were kids. He's never let you down, not once. Maybe that's why you're so scared of being with him. You know that if anything goes wrong, it'll be your fault, so if you don't do anything, then nothing can go wrong. It's a flawed theory, you admit, but it's worked so far. But you do really want to touch him. Your lips find Beck's, somehow. You've never been the best with your aim, but his lips are magnets that you can't help but be attracted to. This time it works. Your brain cooperates with you, leans you into the kiss, keeps you breathing and moving and working. You're a machine with all its parts working. As many times as Beck might break you, he fixes you just as many. Your hand slips to his waist, playing over the hard muscle there. Beck's mouth is slightly cool, your tongue tripping over his lower lip. It's sending your blood boiling, and unfortunately, unlike the real world, your hot air isn't rising. It's going in a distinctively southern direction.

You break away, breathless. "Can I... can I take your shirt off?" Beck raises an eyebrow at you. "It's okay if I can't. It was a stupid idea. Never mind. It's cold in here anyway. I was actually thinking of putting another shirt on. 'Cause it's... you know, it's... it's chilly." You trail off as Beck raises his arms, saying your name just once.

He's the only one that calls you that. _Rob_. He rolls it like a stone in his mouth, like it's solid and strong and not at all who you really are. Rob is a man's name, and half the time you don't even feel like a boy, let alone a man. It's a heartbeat on his tongue, a throb that flicks your chest and brings you back. It calms you. He cuts off your nervous rambling, your awkward excuses. He slices to the core of you, tears down all the cobwebs you build to catch any uncomfortable pauses or questions that might flutter your way.

You can do this. Really, you can.

Your hand plucks at the hem of Beck's shirt, the material suddenly seeming slick and slippery, fingers blunt bricks that refuse to cooperate. When you finally manage to grab it, you're scared your hands are shaking too much to keep hold. It's all in your head. It has to be. No one could be this scared of taking someone's shirt off. But oh, __you're going to see his chest___._

Not that you haven't seen his chest before, because you have. But a bunch of other people saw him as well. This chest… it's just for you. You're going to see it because of your actions, not because he's going swimming or it's a hot day or he got something spilt on him. You don't know why it makes such a huge difference, but it does.

The shirt comes off, finally, warm, thin material bundled in your hand, and suddenly it seems too small to cover him. Beck's skin is clear and smooth and sculpted, like someone with a lot of talent spent a whole lot of time perfecting him, compared to your slapdash design. It's the difference between a kindergarten art class and a college one. He's Michelangelo's David, and you're the Andy Warhol can of soup. You're tomato. You're cold tomato soup.

You lick your lips as your hands trace over Beck's flat chest, skin smooth and muscles hard. They find his abs, fingertips tracing each one, Beck shifting a little, stomach shivering. "Ticklish." He explains, smiling.

A whole month, and you're only just touching his chest. It took you a month just to get to second base with him. Still, that's further than you've ever made it in real baseball. But you get the feeling Beck's a homerun kind of guy.

You're pretty sure this isn't good. This isn't what people do. You know that people who date touch each other, but you're pretty sure they do a much better job of it than this. You're about on 'doctor's examination' levels of hotness here. You might as well be taking his pulse. God, what __does __Beck see in you? But his pulse _is _a little high. Maybe you're not doing so badly after all. Or, at least, you could be doing worse. He hasn't slapped you yet, so you're already ahead of the last time you touched someone (an inappropriate handshake).

Beck's breath is warm on your neck as he moves closer to you, your hand creeping to play over his back. Your exploration freezes as Beck kisses you, warm body pressed against you. Beck's back becomes an anchor to hold onto as he moves half on top of you, lips still working against yours. He's so… overpowering. It's the only word you can think of, but it doesn't seem right. It's like he's a level 20 warlock, and you've barely learned a fireball spell yet. He knows what he's doing, and you're just following the book. You never did get the hang of elvish, though. You get the feeling Beck knows a lot of tongues, though.

Your hands find his shoulderblades, only to slip away, carving down Beck's back. He lets out a soft sound of appreciation against your lips, and you try to pretend you did it on purpose. You need somewhere to hold on to, something to stop you from just melting all over the place. If you're butter, then Beck's room temperature, slowly eroding you until you're all slippery and soft.

Your fingers end up hooked in the waistband of Beck's jeans, studded leather of his belt prickling your palms. He chuckles against your lips, moving further onto you, knee in between your skinny denim-clad legs, so very close to touching you. In fact, if you just slide down the tiniest bit, you can- Beck's knee nudges you. You know that's not sexy or hot or whatever, but it's still him and he's still touching you. He might not exactly know it, but you sure do, and in combination with the kissing, it's definitely getting you worked up. You don't think you've been this excited since you watched __Galaxy Wars __and noticed the subtext between Ben Holo and Duke. And, judging from Beck as he presses against you, it's getting him pretty excited too. Somehow, through your awkward touches and sweating hands, you've managed to give Beck a boner. It feels good. Not actually feeling it against you, although that's not at all unpleasant, but the knowledge that you can do that to Beck… it's a good thing. You'd be lying if you said you never thought Beck was only with you out of pity. It's good to have some tangible proof that he actually is into you. Even if that proof is pressing up against your belly.

You swallow hard, lips brushing Beck's as you struggle to take a breath. Your glasses are completely fogged by now, and Beck removes them with a smile, folding them up neatly and placing them on the bedside table. He knows how you like a neat house. As he turns back, your slippery hands somehow unhook themselves from his pants, and you make a clumsy grab at his belt, fingers fumbling with the catch.

Beck licks his lips, looking at you, his hands coming to cover your own where they cling to his belt. His face is serious, eyebrows drawn, and part of you wonders if you've broken some grave kind of man etiquette in touching his belt. Or sweating all over it. What if it was one of those fancy Italian belts like the one your Uncle got you for your bar mitzah? Your Uncle spit on it a lot, but maybe sweat is bad for it?

"You're sure you want to do this, Rob?" Beck's voice is low, soft, his face sincere, and it takes you a moment to understand. Your mind is filled with a montage of belt shopping. The two of you would get milkshakes, and have a dance break, and there would be playful belt snapping. But Beck's fingers rubbing your hand make it quite clear that he's talking about something else entirely.

"W-what?"

Beck rolls his shoulders, the movement graceful. "We don't have to. We can just stop here if you want."

Stop? Like… stop forever? Is he breaking up with you? "N-no, I want to keep going. Please?" This is why you didn't touch him, because you've got the opposite of the Midas Touch. Instead of gold, everything you touch turns to fail. Especially yourself. You didn't turn out well at all. "I really like you, Beck." You wish your lips didn't feel so swollen, or that your mouth wasn't so dry. Not that it would stop the words from stumbling out of your throat. They never seem to make it out smoothly.

Beck gives you a soft kiss, hand warm against your cheek. "Okay. But if you feel wrong, we can stop."

Please, if you'd done that, you never would've left your house to attend preschool. You knew even then that boys didn't wear skirts. Why your mother thought babykilts would get you friends is beyond you. As far as you're concerned, if you ever started feeling right,_ then _you'd be concerned.

Beck's other hand uncovers yours, and you gather them in your lap, Beck's rather bulging jeans-front nearly brushing your hands. You wipe your sweating palms on your thighs, your own pants feeling more than a little tight. You knew you shouldn't have bought those women's skinny jeans. They didn't allow at all for your man jangles. Although they did have this cute little lipstick niche near the pocket.

You stiffen as Beck's hands tug at his belt, loosening it, undoing it. You watch, almost mesmerised as he tugs it out. It's so long, unending almost, until it slips to the ground like a stunned black snake. Your attention is then turned to the button of Beck's jeans, which has apparently come undone. It's followed by his zipper, and then all you're aware of is Beck's light grey boxer briefs and the shape underneath that's distorting them. It looks so much bigger in person. The spittle dries in your throat, Adam's apple bobbing. You're fairly sure you've just stumbled into something, but you're not sure if it's going to be bad, like that time you ran into Lane's office while he was applying his 'lotion', or good, like that time you stumbled into Festus and he had free pizza left over. Although it seemed to have a lot of gravel in it for a free pizza.

"It's okay, Rob. You can touch me."

You nod too quickly, neck twinging. "Y-yes. I… I know. I can…" Your tongue runs out over your lips, eyes scouring Beck as best they can without your glasses. "_Touch you_." It comes out as a whisper, hushed by your broken voice.

You've somehow gone from never touching Beck at all (barring the occasional clumsy hug), to being about to touch him in his no-no place. But it's starting to seem to you like a real yes-yes. It's so close to you. You know, logically, that it's not really any closer than before, but it's the difference between seeing a leashed vicious dog, and a free one. It seems a lot closer without that restraint.

Part of you is glad your parents are out at an all-you-can-eat-buffet with the Steinbaums, but you kind of wish they were here to stop you making a fool of yourself. It's not that you don't want to, well… get jiggy with Beck, but what if you suck? Not suck as in use your mouth, but suck as in Beck ends up pushing you off and storming out and he never calls you again or returns your deluxe edition of__Galaxy Wars __with the exclusive director's commentary.

You're not quite sure how to back out of this, either. You can't really say, "I thought you were breaking up with me, because I didn't understand that that wasn't a phone in your pants, and that you really were happy to see me."

Maybe if you just touch it once. Just through the underwear. You have to admit, you're more than a little curious. Just look at it. Tenting his underwear like that. Those underwear fit Beck really well, too. They sit on his hips just right. You wonder where he got them. Maybe if you check the tag?

Oh. You're… you're touching him. When did that happen? Sometimes you think you have that alien hand syndrome, or whatever it's called. That'd explain Rex, at least. Regardless, your hand is pressed against Beck's manhood, and it's burning your palm through the thin cotton.

Beck shifts a little, breath pouring out of his open mouth. It occurs to you that he's nervous too. Beck plays it cool so often you forget it's a play at all. You move your hand along him experimentally, Beck's hips pushing forward to increase the friction.

"Is... is that okay?" It's a rhetorical question, because you know it's not. You've barely even done anything yet. You've moved your hand about as many times as someone shaking a pair of dice, when they're not particularly invested in the outcome.

"That's good." Beck's eyes flutter closed as you rub a little harder, feeling the outline of him around your grasping fingers. He drops your name like a stone, like it was too heavy to keep in his mouth, and it sends a shiver along your spine, and an ache in your pants. He's curled like a question mark, hand planted on the headboard for support, hips swaying slightly, and for someone who has no idea what they're doing or how it even came to this, you seem to be doing okay. Which is better than you've ever done before.

"Can I...?" You can't seem to finish the question you want to ask, mainly because the actual words firmly cross your awkward boundary. You're sure that any attempt to say them would result in not only stuttering, but several nonsense words and an attempt to divert attention with a story about something horrifying that happened to you in your childhood. You've got no shortage of those.

Beck seems to understand, giving a short nod, muscles in his cheek working. Your thumbs hook in the waistband of Beck's underwear, dragging them down, your mind noting the brandname. You'll have to google them later. Now really isn't the time to ask Beck where he bought them. There are much more pressing matters.

If it seemed bigger freed from his jeans before, it seems even larger now. But maybe larger isn't the right word. It seems... much more real. It's just... it's there. Before, you were stroking a concept, just like you used to touch your G.I. Joes, when your mom left you alone. There wasn't anything there, but there was supposed to be, and that was enough for you. This is more than enough. This is quite enough for you.

You lick your lips, glancing up at Beck.

"You're okay?"

You don't know how he can be so strong. Even now, when he's so vulnerable. You don't know how he's not ashamed, like Rabbi Goldberg told you to be (strangely enough, not long after your circumcision). He's the same Beck, just there's a whole lot more of him now.

"I... I'm good." You nod for emphasis. You are good. You've got no idea what you're doing, but you've got a theory. You've done it to yourself, but if it's anything like buttoning a shirt, it's going to be a lot harder doing it on someone else.

You wrap your hand around the length of him, swallowing hard at the warmth that burns your palm, Beck's shuddering breath the only thing keeping you focussed. You're not shaking hands with it, after all. You're here to give Beck another reason to be with you. And maybe to prove to yourself that you deserve to be.

Beck shivers as you start up a rhythm, jerky at first. You think of all the pornos you've ever seen... and promptly forget everything done in them. You're pretty sure if you tried anything from them you'd seriously injure Beck. And then you'd probably have a lawsuit on your hands.

You try moving your hand a little faster, in strong, even strokes, Beck's hips pushing forward into your hand. He grunts softly, eyes squeezed shut, spine bent over you. You can feel his breath feathering you in short, strained bursts. You take that to mean you're doing an okay job.

You shift slightly, moving to press up against Beck a little more, his skin hot and smooth against you. If you want, you can even plant a kiss on his neck. And you do want. His pulse is racing under your lips, muscles working in his throat. It doesn't take long until he's pushing into you harder, soft groans escaping him.

Then, with an exhaled breath, and few last uneven pushes, Beck stills, breath ragged, and his hand brushes away yours, taking control. You figure it's for the best. You're not the greatest at catching anything, let alone liquid.

His breath starts to calm, shoulders sagging, and he eases carefully off the bed, pants half-slipped down his hips. "You're okay?"

You nod again, eyes closing as Beck gives you a soft, lingering kiss before pulling back.

"I'll be right back, Rob. Then it's your turn." Beck grins at you as he exits the room, still graceful even when half-naked. _More_ than half-naked. At least three quarters.

You'd spend more time thinking about the exact ratio if you weren't too busy trying to comprehend the last thing Beck said. You're still in shock over what just happened. You totally just got someone off. You were almost certain that the only way you could do that was by accident, like crashing into a lady's car and giving her that disorder where she has orgasms whenever she sneezes. Or indirectly, like when you gave Cat that vibrating hairbrush that she never speaks of.

You slump down on your bed, gazing with blurry eyes at the ceiling. You're still not entirely sure of what you did or how you did it, but when Beck comes back, he's going to do the same thing to you. And maybe you'll understand it even less. Either way, it definitely feels like you've hit a home run today.

You finally scored.

/

**A/N: I can tell you right now that this was a challenge.**

**Something about Robbie and any kind of sexual contact just pushes the boundary of reality. Except with Rex, but I'm still waiting for _that _smut fic. I've seen the way they look at each other. I mean, they share a room!**

**One day the world will accept their love. Until that day, they'll just remain a boy and his 'puppet'.**

**Reviews are always appreciated. For the fic, that is, not for... not for the puppetsmut thing.**


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